Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller)

by JJ Marsh

  Her point was valid, and the total absence of a dissenting voice brought them all down. They finished their sandwiches in grim silence and returned to the venue to work on the second half of the programme.

  Although the afternoon’s rehearsals were a vast improvement on the morning, it was still a disheartening experience. The usual invitations to Friday night drinks went unmentioned and everyone left quietly, wishing each other a nice weekend. Rolf asked the new apprentice on stage door for the key to dressing room 506. She handed it over without quibble and Rolf took his cello downstairs. Locked in the room where he and Anton had eaten sandwiches naked, Rolf sat at the dressing table and looked at himself in the mirror. He switched on the square frame of light bulbs but his eyes were still photosensitive. He recoiled and turned them off.

  In the darkness of the basement room, he addressed all the questions he’d locked in a box since the moment he picked up his bow that morning. While he had emphatically sworn to his colleagues at lunchtime that Anton was undoubtedly innocent, an assertion he believed, he knew nothing could be the same again. One accusation was all it took for Anton’s position to become untenable – as a teacher, as a player in the quartet and as a member of the conservatoire staff. It was brutally unfair.

  That said, associations with the person under suspicion would also come under scrutiny. Bertrand was right. How well did they know their friend?

  And Leonor? What had he been thinking? He stuck a grenade into his life, setting off a chain of explosions that would ruin his career. After all she’d done to get him into this position. They’d been through a rough period, which happened in the best relationships, but it needed addressing. A memory from the previous evening blindsided him. “According to the doctors, I’m fertile, in great physical shape and if I want to get pregnant, we can start as soon as we like. How about that for fabulous news?”

  He stood up and paced around a few metres of the dressing room. She had moved the goalposts. Again. When searching for an apartment together, the issue of children came up via a letting agent. She had pointed out that the shabby little place above a shop boasted two bedrooms. Ideal for when you start your family. They rejected the place and discussed the agent’s comment later that night. To his relief, she was adamant she didn’t want kids. How, she asked, would they achieve their dreams of international concert performers touring the world if they were dragging brats behind them? No kids. That was one subject, she insisted, about which she would never change her mind. Now she had changed her mind.

  He shook his head. What a time to raise the subject, right before his debut. If she really wanted kids, they would have a conversation. But not now. For the next two weeks he would play the role of loyal partner and indulge Leonor in whatever she wanted, apart from sex. He would insist on a truce. Some peace. A safe place.

  This week, Rolf needed to devote 100% of his concentration on the orchestra and his place within it. Whatever was happening with Anton would be resolved one way or another. Domestic upheavals were the last thing he needed in the last intense sprint towards the dress rehearsal. Best not rock the boat. He took out his phone and saw that all his messages had gone. His call log was empty other than Leonor’s wake-up alarm that morning. Anton’s contact info had disappeared. She must have cleared everything while he was sleeping. Including the WhatsApp group. Why the hell would she do something like that? He answered his own question. The same reason she’d done it before. To protect him from himself.

  He dropped the key at the stage door and left the building, heading for home.

  15

  The bus pulled up outside the Konzerthalle just as Rolf left the building. Synchronicity, he thought and boarded to ride the two stops home. He stood, as usual, in a wheelchair space so as not to take up the room of two people. He glanced around his fellow passengers and saw Leonor’s pupil, Susana, sitting a few seats away. Her head was bowed; she was presumably looking at her mobile phone. He watched her for a moment, a friendly smile prepared for when she raised her head, but she never did. He gazed out the window at the façades of the houses, wondering what all the people inside were doing on a Friday night.

  The bus stopped on Moosstrasse and a woman with a pushchair got on. With an apology, Rolf moved out of her way to allow her space to park the buggy and stood next to the closing doors. As he reached up to grab a handhold, he noticed Susana shooting a sidelong glance in his direction. He nodded at her with a grin but she looked away quickly as if embarrassed to have been caught looking at him. The woman with a pushchair gave him suspicious look. Rolf concentrated on keeping a bland expression and meeting no one’s eyes for the remainder of the journey, concealing the raw shame that churned within him.

  It couldn’t be possible that people suspected him of an unhealthy interest in children, just because he lived in the same building. In any case, how would they know about Anton? His stop was next and he had never been so relieved to get off a bus. He vowed to himself that from then on, come hail or snow, he would walk to work. His head was so full of that awkward encounter that he did not realise until he was a few paces up his own garden path that the house was cordoned off with police tape and a uniformed officer stood at the front door.

  “What’s going on?” he barked, his voice more aggressive than he’d intended.

  “Are you a resident, sir?”

  “Yes, I live upstairs.”

  “Would you mind showing me your ID, please?”

  Rolf set down his cello and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Here it is. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  The officer inspected Rolf’s ID card and handed it back. “I can’t, unfortunately.” He looked over his shoulder. “But chief inspector Weissmann, that guy in the blue shirt, is in charge of the investigation. As you’re a neighbour, he might want to talk to you.” He stood aside to allow Rolf to pass and guided him in the direction of the investigator to make the introductions.

  Weissmann was in his late fifties, with a paunch and buzz-cut grey hair. His blue eyes swept over Rolf and alighted on the cello. “Herr Jaro. Another musician, I see.”

  “Yes. I’m cellist with the Salzburg City Orchestra. Can you tell me if Herr Berger has been charged with any offence?”

  Weissman did not respond for a moment, still studying Rolf. “Jaro. Not a common name here. You’re Slovakian, I assume. Can I ask how well you know your neighbour?”

  “He’s more than just a neighbour. We play in the same quartet together and I would describe us as pretty good friends. I’ve seen him tutoring young pupils and I admire his enthusiasm for talent. He’s a total professional.” He maintained eye contact, trying to project an air of respectability and truthfulness. Because all he had said was true.

  “Thank you for your opinion. Herr Berger has not yet been charged, merely accused. He denies it in the strongest terms. Amongst other things, we need to check his apartment to be sure there is no evidence to support the claim. If we find nothing, it will be up to the affected parties to decide if they want to pursue a case. Please take my card, in case you think of anything else I should know.”

  Rolf accepted the card. “Thank you.” He fished in his pocket. “Here’s one of mine.”

  The inspector took it, his expression registering mild surprise. “I appreciate that. OK, I’m sure you have better things to do on a Friday night than talk to me. Have a nice evening.”

  “Herr Weissmann? My neighbour has a cat. Can you tell me what you have done with it?”

  “Oh, right, the cat. One of my officers mentioned seeing cat food and a litter tray, but there’s no sign of the animal. If it turns up, would you be prepared to take care of it until your neighbour returns home? One thing I cannot say is how long that is likely to take.”

  “Absolutely. Anton asked me to look after Blue anyway. I’ll go and search for him in the garden, but if your officers find him, could you let me know?”

  The inspector nodded and returned to Anton’s apartment through the op
en door. Rolf could see at least half a dozen uniformed cops rifling through books, opening drawers and confiscating the computer. The urge to run in there and protect Anton’s privacy was powerful, but he turned on his heel and climbed the stairs. Leonor wasn’t home, flooding Rolf with a sense of relief. It was only a temporary respite, but a respite nonetheless.

  There was an unopened packet of ham in the fridge. He took it down the stairs and out through the garden door, hoping to tempt Blue out of his hiding place. The cat must be terrified with all those people trampling around the apartment. He peered underneath the hedge, calling Blue’s name and making squeaky noises. At one point he sat back on his haunches and scanned the garden. Weissmann and two other officers were standing at Anton’s French windows, watching. Out of nowhere, a memory assaulted him with such force he dropped the packet of ham and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  A summer evening, just like this. The gardens were huge and varied, from rose-covered bowers to ornamental ponds and tennis courts. The game was hide and seek. Shrieking young boys ran naked out of the house, across the terrace and dispersed to all corners of the garden while a man’s voice counted to twenty in Russian. Rolf was nervous and frightened and excited, all at the same time. His bare feet raced over the neatly trimmed grass. He searched for somewhere to hide, as each number yelled from the terrace increased his panic. A greenhouse containing strange succulent plants offered refuge but only contained one entrance. If someone caught him, he was trapped. He ran on, the flight impulse heightened by the roars coming from the terrace. Their twenty-second head start was over and the men were on the hunt.

  He couldn’t see any of the other boys. Far more experienced than him, they must have already found perfect hiding spaces. An idea came to him. The men were charging out into the gardens from the terrace, intent on catching one of them. If he could find his way into the house without being seen, they would catch him, of course they would, but he would be indoors. Should something really horrible happen, he could scream and be rescued. But only inside the house. The gardens in the fading light were a far more terrifying prospect.

  He crouched underneath a bush with white tropical flowers, huddled as close to the trunk as he could get. White flowers were a good choice. From his vantage point he could see a similar bush closer to the house with deep red flowers. Underneath the lowest leaves, he caught glimpses of a young pale body. Far too easy to spot if one of those playboys bent down for a closer look. Feet thundered past him, voices shouting and laughing, and he was sure he could smell the alcohol even above the scent of exotic blooms and dank earth. After a few seconds, he heard a scream and a shout of triumph. Someone had indeed looked under the red bush and found that kid with blond floppy hair. For a heartbeat, it looked like Dmitry, but the boy’s body was bigger than that of his friend. The bearded guy dragged him out by the ankle, threw him over his shoulder and marched into the shrubbery.

  Rolf scrambled out from under the bush and ran in the direction of the terrace. When he got close enough to be lit by the terrace lamps, he hid behind a cypress tree. He waited until he could see there was no one around and scurried up the steps into the ballroom, only to stumble and fall flat on his face. The foot he had tripped over belonged to an older man with droopy jowls, holding a glass like a fishbowl and smoking a kind of thin cigar.

  He spoke with a heavy Russian accent. “Every single time. Those idiots go running and screaming and chasing mice around the gardens and I just sit here until one little mouse comes inside.” He put out his cigar, heaved himself out of his chair and unbuckled his wide leather belt. “Come with me, little mouse. Let me find you some cheese.”

  Rolf knelt on the grass, his fists clenched and his eyes tightly closed to block out the memory. He stayed that way until he heard the tinkling of a bell. Blue was pacing across the lawn in his direction, tail twitching and making his usual coarse yowl, intent on the packet of ham. He’d given almost half of it to the cat before he heard the French windows open and footsteps approach.

  “You found the cat, Herr Jaro. Very good. The ground floor apartment is now out of bounds, I’m afraid. The doors are taped and no unauthorised access is allowed. I appreciate your taking care of your neighbour’s pet. I brought the bowls, litter and food as I assume you’ll be taking it upstairs.” Weissmann handed him a carrier bag.

  “Yes, I will. That’s very kind of you.” He felt uncomfortable and ridiculous kneeling on the grass, gazing up at the police inspector. “I’ll do that right now. Have a good weekend and thank you. Come, Blue.” He got his feet, picked up the bag and the cat and went inside the house.

  The sound of the shower alerted him to the fact Leonor had arrived home. Rolf released Blue to explore and assessed the environment carefully, but could find no clue as to Ms von Rosenheim’s mood. Her handbag was on the dining table, with today’s post shoved in the top. He flicked through the contents to see if there was anything for him and noted a letter with an American stamp, addressed to Leonor. The postmark was Chicago, Illinois. Another one? He tucked it back into the pile and went into the kitchen to prepare Blue’s litter tray, water bowl and kibble.

  He was sitting on the sofa, the cat curled up on the opposite chair, when she emerged in a pale evening dress he hadn’t seen before, her hair up in a French twist and wearing red-carpet style make-up. He knew she had sold most of her jewellery, but the diamonds in her ears and at her neck looked expensive.

  “You look very glamorous. New earrings?”

  “A present from Le Duc.” She pointed at Blue. “Why is that in our apartment?”

  “The police removed some stuff from ... the apartment downstairs. The place is taped shut so I had to bring him up here. It’s only for the weekend.”

  She shot him a sharp look. “How do you know?”

  “Well, I don’t, but the inspector said if they don’t find any evidence of anything, Anton will probably be released. Where are you going?”

  “Meeting a friend for a drink. She’s having boyfriend trouble. I suggest you get a takeaway and if that thing shits in here, it can damn well stay outside. See you later.” With that, she was gone. It was as if they were just sharing an apartment, two strangers who occupied a communal space. No longer lovers. No longer soul mates or potential parents. He couldn’t work out her attitude and her constant unpredictability ground him down.

  Rolf heard their front door close. He padded across the parquet floor and opened their apartment door. Surely she wouldn’t get on the bus dressed like that. He leaned across the banister and listened. She was on the phone, ordering a taxi to somewhere called the Belle Rive Gallery. She asked the cab to collect her outside a bar down the road. The front door to the building slammed shut and he returned to his spot on the sofa, puzzling over her behaviour. On a whim, he fetched his laptop and found a Belle Rive Gallery in the city centre, a pricey-looking establishment which tonight was launching a new exhibition. The event was invitation only. He put on a baseball cap and his trainers, left the cat sleeping on the sofa and jogged out onto the street, heading towards the heart of Salzburg.

  The gallery was on a street corner and so discreetly marked it was easy to miss. The downstairs windows showed nothing of the interior, simply displaying examples of the artworks within. Rolf followed a pair of women towards the entrance, where two doormen were checking guests’ invitations. Rolf continued past and took a right into a side alley. That was when he saw the fire escape. Metal steps zigzagged down the building ending around two metres away. Access was prevented by nothing more than a chain clipped to both handrails from which dangled a sign saying Privat. Rolf checked around him and decided to take the risk. He unclipped the chain and crept up the steps as quietly as he was able. When he got to the first floor, he waited in the shadows of the fire door for several moments. After it was clear no one had seen him, he took two more cautious steps, enabling him to look through the window. He watched for a moment, keeping his face in darkness, and deduced that what he was seeing was
not the exhibition itself, but the associated party. Waiters moved between parties of people carrying silver platters filled with glasses and amuse-bouches, while people circulated from group to group in a constant swirl of movement.

  He thought back to earlier that evening when Leonor had walked into the room and tried to remember the colour of her dress. Beige? Neutral? As far as he could remember, it was the same colour as her skin. While he was sitting on the metal step in the darkness, attempting to recall his girlfriend’s clothes, he saw her come across the room, her arms outstretched. Her dress was off-white and flowed over her curves like double cream. She embraced an older couple and instantly engaged them in conversation, her jewellery sparkling under the spotlights. Heads turned and more than one interested male came over for an introduction. There was no sign of any female friend.

  Leonor managed to detach the older man from his wife and guide him towards the bar. How she did that Rolf had no idea, but the woman seemed content to continue chatting with other partygoers. The man was obviously delighted with Leonor’s attention and as they walked out of sight, Rolf recognised him from the garden party. Hofmeister, the senior board member of the orchestra. Why had Leonor been invited to this exhibition alone? And why was she attaching herself to such a powerful individual, someone with considerable influence over the orchestra?

  He watched and waited for another twenty minutes until the sponsor returned alone. Leonor did not return to the room. Rolf creaked down the staircase and emerged from the alleyway into the street. He jerked his baseball cap down over his face and jogged in the direction of home.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Leonor stood in the centre of the living room, wearing a bathrobe, her hair in a towel and fluffy slippers.